Familiarity Breeds Contempt
by usomitai
Summary: House’s and Wilson’s attempt at a domestic relationship gets off to a rocky start and only grows worse.
1. wait for other bedtime treats

**Wait for other bedtime treats **

Sunlight was peeping in through the cracks of the Venetian blinds when Wilson's brain began the slow process of awakening. The deep, regular guttural snorts next to him assured him that House was still on the other side of consciousness, though that was a given. He always slept longer. Wilson stretched his arms and legs out, relieving himself of the night's cricks and muscle cramps. The bed dipped in his favor and sprang back to place when he stopped stretching.

He put his hands behind his head, wondered what to do with his Sunday. It was too late for jogging, which he preferred to do while the sun was still rising, but there were other things to be done. There were small chores, like vacuuming and replenishing the kitchen's supply of foodstuffs, that neither he nor House ever had the time for during the week. Or he could relax. He was still fifty-two pages away from finishing "The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers," and if he read it now, he could avoid any more of House's jokes about his similarities to the British monarch.

House had turned away from the light source and now faced Wilson. He was frowning, as he often did while asleep, the wrinkles in his forehead set in deep lines. His mouth was open, though if he had been aware of how idiotic he looked he would have promptly shut it. Wilson made a mental note to someday leave the digital camera within arm's reach so that he could shoot a picture of him in this state and use it as taunting ammunition. With House, one needed to stay several steps ahead.

Wilson would have liked to reach out and touch House: his arm beneath the sheets, his throat, his chest. Unfortunately, such attempts had in the past led to an instantly awake and very irate House. He needed his space in bed- Wilson didn't know if this was a natural or learned condition, but House's personal bubble of space was wider when he was asleep than awake. No snuggling, no reaching out, no anything. It was a disappointment to Wilson, who enjoyed physical contact in bed, for it felt more intimate under the covers than it did anywhere else. On the other hand, House didn't expect it of him, and was therefore never annoyed to discover that Wilson had gone off to the hospital at four a.m. for an emergency.

And there were other ways to feel House. There was the way the bed sagged to the other side, how the bedsprings communicated what the other person was doing. There was the eternal tug-of-war with the sheets, with House generally being the victor - come morning Wilson inevitably discovered his feet exposed and House wrapped in the sheets.

Wilson pulled back some of the covers, settled on his side, closed his eyes, and let himself go back to sleep.


	2. let the world around us fade

**Let the world around us fade  
**

They agreed to tell their coworkers.

House would have preferred to stay mum and let them worry their pretty little heads off, have them figure it out for themselves. Wilson was against that because, as he said, "they're going to come up with all kinds of rumors, most of them unflattering and none of which I want to hear."

"That's the fun of it," House pointed out.

In the end, Wilson got his way, if only because House couldn't stop him from going up and talking to people or control the content of his conversations. Since this was the case, House wanted, at least, to partake in the burden of letting their coworkers know about their homosexual relationship. Their expressions would be _brilliant_. That wasn't an opportunity he could let slip by!

Wilson told the people in his department as well as Cuddy, who after ten minutes of ill-humored skepticism (she kept looking for where House was hiding, expecting him to pop up laughing the minute she believed it), wavered between happiness for House and dismay for Wilson. "You've gone crazy," she assured him.

"It'll be good for him," he reminded her, and eventually she had to concede that it was probably for the best and really not any of her business. In fact, the less business of hers it was, the better.

His colleagues didn't care that much. In terms of general reactions, with a few exceptions, his male employees were overjoyed that Wilson was off the dating market, and the female ones were disappointed for the same reason. Wilson noticed a sharp decline in the amount the nurses flirted with him; in fact, they toned it down I much /I more than after any of his marriages.

He passed on the news that evening, with House's feet in his lap ("massage them," House demanded, and though Wilson had made vague noises about the unbearability of their odor, he obliged).

"Cuddy wouldn't stop leering at me after you talked to her," House complained. "Don't be such a sissy, my toes aren't going to snap off. I think she's turned on by the thought of us getting it on."

Wilson stopped being a sissy and pressed the ball of House's foot harder between his finger and thumb, squeezed the foot with the whole of his hand. House leaned his head back as he exhaled, eyes closed. "Well, who wouldn't be?"

"Foreman, for one."

"A man of limited imagination," Wilson agreed, working on the right heel.

"I tell you, I despair at ever dragging him away from textbook knowledge."

"Did he say anything in particular?"

"Asked me to wait to break up with you until I after /I he's finished his fellowship."

"Shock of shocks, Foreman does not predict a happy ending for us. I bet Chase was more impressed."

"If what you mean was that he was more sycophantic, then, yes, he congratulated me, with his Aussie smile—"

"Foreigners I smile /I differently from us, too? No wonder we hate immigrants."

"—He asked me to congratulate you too, by the way—"

"Thanks, I think."

"—And that was that. Boy ought to get more worked up over the changes in his tiny little world."

"I realize this is a lot to ask for, but will you _ever_ be satisfied with any of them?"

House pretended to mull that one over, making a loud "hrm" sound. "Maybe when they become better doctors than me… no. Not even then. Wouldn't want them to get complacent."

"Poor kids. How about Cameron, I bet she was delighted."

"That's the thing- she didn't care."

"Wait, are we speaking about the same Cameron? Long brown hair, wears vests, has an opinion on everything?"

"My mistake, I was talking about the bimbo working the register."

"When you say she didn't care, you—"

"Imagine this—I walk into the office, fling my arms open," and House demonstrated physically, nearly swatting Wilson in the face, "and declared, 'I am off the market, for, lo, Wilson and I are doing the horizontal tango!'--"

"God, House, I asked you to be discreet—"

"The other two did what I just told you, and Cameron—she just looks at me and says, 'okay.' Okay! Like I said I wanted boiled eggs for lunch, or something."

"You're miffed, aren't you."

"Not miffed. …Am I I that /I easy to get over?"

What Wilson didn't say was: I wouldn't know, since I haven't gotten over you myself. "Pretty much," was what he actually did say, giving House's foot one last squeeze before letting go. better. "I wouldn't count on it."


	3. an electric love in her eyes

**An electric love in her eyes **

What House didn't tell Wilson—he didn't need to know absolutely _everything_, after all— was the conversation he had with Cameron, in private, afterwards.

Before she could run off to interview their latest potential patient (sixteen-year-old girl came in for pneumonia and presented symptoms of anorexia; Cameron and Chase thought there was more to the case, Foreman and House thought she just needed to learn how to get over herself and start eating again), he cornered her in the hallway.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's it, what? I haven't taken her history yet, give me at least that much time before you declare her too boring to even exist in your general vicinity."

"Not her, you."

"What about me?"

"I want to know why suddenly don't care about my dating life."

"You're _dating_ him? Like, you're going out for movies and a dinner, you kiss him after driving him home?"

"If what you actually mean is take-out, HBO marathons, and fucking, then, yes, we're dating."

And she had to have been working for him too long, because not even flinging the f-word at her was enough to make her flinch. "If you think I'm going to get all weepy and doe-eyed, think again. I used to like you, yes, but you didn't like me, so I remembered how to think of you as my boss. And speaking of work, I've got Belinda to interview." She skillfully maneuvered out of the corner House had tried to trap her in.

He was proud and disappointed, but mostly, he didn't believe her.


	4. if you've known love like these jokers

**But if you've known love like these jokers before **

What Wilson didn't tell House—he didn't need to know—was the conversation he had with Cameron after she'd gotten the news.

He'd been on his cell phone, and after hanging up, he turned around and nearly jumped out of skin when he found Cameron not two inches behind him, arms crossed and looking severely severe. "You're calling him House," she said, and Wilson felt like he was being accused of murder.

Taken aback, Wilson tried a joke to calm Cameron down. "We did consider me calling him sugar-nose, but we decided it might make everyone within hearing distance nauseous. We figure there's enough work in the hospital without sending more patients to the clinic."

"You're sleeping with him and yet you don't call him by his first name."

"It's ten-year habit. These things are hard to break."

"Do you love him?"

Wilson stared at her; she certainly looked serious. He wondered if she'd always been that nosy and audacious, or if it was a practice she'd picked up from her boss. "You're kidding, right?"

"It's not an absurd question," Cameron defended herself, raising her chin defiantly.

"I didn't realize you had the right to be asking me anything like that."

"You're the one living with him. Are you too embarrassed to admit to something as banal as 'I love you'? I always took that to be one of the minimum requirements."

"We're not like that. And anyway, I don't think this falls under your jurisdiction." He tried to shake her off by turning around and walking away- this really wasn't an appropriate discussion for them to be having- but she followed, persistent.

"Don't play with him."

"What makes you think he's not the one playing with me?"

"Don't think I forgot the advice you gave me when I went out with him. He wouldn't consider jumping off this particular building without someone to there push him off."

"I'd say it was a mutual endeavor." Something clicked in his head: maybe it wasn't jealousy, not entirely, that had her invading his personal space. "Are you I concerned /I over him?"

If she had been crossing her arms before, she seemed now to be huddling into herself. "I saw what Stacy did to him. I don't want to catch the rerun."

"Cameron. I'll be careful."

"All right," she nodded, after a pause.


	5. there’s something magic in the air

**There's something magic in the air **

Once the prospect of scandal died down, and once they came around to the fact that there was an "us" that referred to just the two of them, their lives started to settle down again, gelling into routine. House found his life entwining even further with Wilson's, and he wondered if they hadn't become Siamese twins, with two heads and a single pair of arms and legs between them. Then again, he only had one good leg to start with, so perhaps he wasn't losing much, in the long run, by getting another one via Wilson. (Wilson remarked, upon hearing this theory, that he himself ought to be getting a third leg in the deal.) He would have to wait and see.

Wilson was there in the morning—and all night as well, but, asleep, House didn't notice—and always, _always_ woke him up when he tried to sneak out of bed and slip into his running shoes. Then he kept House awake as he thudded and squeaked along the floor, flushing the toilet, opening and closing doors. Once he was outside, House was free to sleep once more. That is, until Wilson returned with his jangling keys and running tap water.

Wilson would come back reeking of his own sweat, his skin filmy with it, and House would kind of hate him, because the best he himself could do was juggle multiple objects, twirl his cane, or lift heavy pieces of metal up and down.

But kind of hate him or not, when Wilson came in smelling of armpit and teenaged-boy socks, foppish hair wet about the neck and forehead, breathing in great gulps, he was somewhat irresistible. House had to have him, run his mouth over that layer of salt-water. Still high on endorphins, Wilson's eyelids would go aflutter. He was more languid, as though his muscles were already considering taking a break after the work-out, and at the same time more forceful, pushier, because he was at the edge of his limits. Under any other circumstance House would forbid all strenuous morning activity, but if this was the only time Wilson came like this, so be it.

Whether or not they had messy sex after Wilson's jog, they went through the rest of their morning schedule, which, in no particular order, included: breakfast (which House ate only because Wilson, who cooked far too well for a male, made it. House would joke about how Wilson was trying to get use his stomach to reach other organs, but he had already exhausted all the variations. Let the dead horse rot in peace), showering, changing clothes, hunting for lost papers and books, and spats over how to get to work. Depending on how persistent Wilson was, House sometimes let himself be talked into getting a ride, despite how it crimped his style. Most days, though, House was adamant about riding the motorcycle, and it was with a ridiculously inflated sense of triumph that he mounted the thing.

If they went separately, House reached the hospital first. If they went together, he had to put up with Wilson's driving ("Driving at the speed limit does _not_ make me a senile old biddy," was Wilson's general reply to House's complaints). Once there, they inevitably ran into each other, and how could they not, given that they had neighboring offices and balconies. To add insult to injury, Wilson often invited him for lunch, which, frankly, House thought was overdoing it. Didn't they already spend all day together? But it wasn't a pain to eat with him, and there was generally some traumatic experience from the clinic or Cuddy to whine about, so if he accepted the invitation it wasn't entirely for altruistic reasons. After lunch they ran into each other some more, and if they had gone to work together, together they went back home. There they spent the evening quietly, taking care of their own projects, occasionally making some comment to each other. Wilson always went to bed early, the wimp, and when it came time for House to crash for the night, he purposefully made as much noise as possible to wake Wilson up and get an exasperated, if fond, "good night, you freak case."

House was of the opinion that he ought to be sick and tired of Wilson, but he wasn't, and that was odd and almost disquieting. Shouldn't he be?


	6. born through the winds of time

**Born through the winds of time  
**

Wilson had noticed a trend, but didn't dare check until he was absolutely certain.

The vial tended to stay in his pants pocket-- if not next to the heart, then at least close at hand—and it was a just matter of fishing in, when House wasn't paying attention, to get it. "Hey!" House tried to snatch back his precious medicine, but Wilson, with full use of two legs, nimbly pranced out of reach.

"Produced: March 2006," Wilson read off the label, still maneuvering so as to keep hold of the bottle, "Odd, that; there was a time you used to go through one of these per month. How much are you taking daily, now?"

"Enough," House growled, holding Wilson's right shoulder and reaching for the bottle with his other arm, "We agreed that you wouldn't try to change my dosage. Now give it back."

"Oh, I wouldn't," Wilson assured him, extending his arm, holding to bottle out of House's reach, "But, out of curiosity, how much is 'enough'?"

"The quantity that meets my needs for pain-killing."

"Which translates, in scientific measurements, to…?"

House made one last swipe before giving up. "60mg."

"Oh! Excuse me for asking, but—" and Wilson tried to stop his face from lighting up, but it was hard, if not impossible, to keep from being ecstatic to hear it from House himself, "isn't that a quarter less than what you were taking a year ago?"

"I'm feeling the need for one now," House muttered, and Wilson decided to be magnanimous enough to give him back the bottle. His point had been proven; he didn't need it anymore. And House didn't even pop a pill, he just shucked it back into his pocket, into a safe place far away from evil kidnapping doctors like Wilson. "I don't want to hear any of your crazy psychobabble extrapolations about this. And you're_ forbidden_ to tell Cuddy, or anyone else. If they ask, tell them that I've doubled my dosage. Tripled!"

It was all Wilson could do to keep from bursting out, in a sing-song voice, "You're taking less, you're taking less!" Any more House grumpiness would detract from the triumph.


	7. god made the distance between me andyou

**This is a mystery not to be solved  
**

His name was Elton Denver, and from the first that Wilson heard of him, he knew that he'd be trouble.

He was thirty years old and had checked into a Rhode Island hospital for rapidly declining memory. All the usual reasons for this to happen in a man so young—head trauma, hormone imbalance, medication, recent surgery—were absent. Tests were taken, family histories recited, and nothing was out of place. He was bounced from one specialist to the next, from neurologists to endocrinologists, only to be sent off to the next doctor. He traveled from hospital to hospital, often crossing state borders, and eventually found his way to the Princeton-Plainsboro's diagnostics department.

He was utterly befuddling, and very much up House's alley. Wilson worried for his own, and the hospital's, sanity.

First came the insomnia, which, while perhaps productive for House, just made everyone else's life harder. As could be expected, one by one he incurred the wrath of those around him.

Wilson was sure it was just a matter of time before the side-effects caught up to him too.

** God made the distance between me and you  
**

What surprised House was how long it took.

"Oh, yes," Wilson grimaced, "Because you've never accused me of infidelity before."

Spats were one thing. They were a regular occurrence, as warming and comforting as showers and almost as frequent as the number of times they struck up a conversation. House often started one up for the hell of it, and though Wilson recognized this as an attempt to ward off boredom, he played along. They bickered over what kind of pasta dinner should be, stem cell research, and the ethics of experimenting on animals. If they happened to share an opinion, House took on the mantle of devil's advocate.

"Infidelity is a thing of the past, isn't it—you're starting to see that you're running out of options. Haven't got the time or the steam to date, haven't got the crystal-clear record most women demand from a boyfriend. And you're almost too old for children. You're used and damaged goods, Wilson, and you know it. Which is why you're shacking up with a cranky, old man. It's better than being alone when the divorce lawyer calls you up for another appointment."

Fights were another thing altogether—then it was no-holds-barred, and more often than not, no survivors left the ring. House appreciated Wilson for being his equal, he really did, but regretted, when they fought, that he ever let him know his weak spots. Wilson could be, and was, ruthless, tearing House up into fine strips and pinning him up on the wall, exposed and explained.

"_I'm _used goods-- what about you? You're settling by staying with me. You wanted- and _got_ - the moon, and once she was yours, you didn't want her anymore, it was too much, it would have made you happy. An obnoxious buddy who gets on your nerves constantly is a much better partner than your one true love. Safer."

And House fought back, with claws and teeth, but damn his need to always rile up everyone; when he needed to shock Wilson, he had little material left to hurt him with. Wilson had already become desensitized to the rest.

"You'd like to think that, but that's where you're wrong. I'm with you because I was curious. What you're better than is—nothing! Congratulations, I'm your prize."

In the past, when one of their fights broke out, they were able to walk in synch again and go back to normal. Neither one forgot the insults, the truths laid stark and bare—they just stored up their resentments for next time. House would have preferred to think of it as a cycle, something without beginning or end. But it was headed in a definite direction. Each time, House was convinced that this would be the earthquake that broke apart the platform between them, isolating them from one another. That this time, there could be no recovery, no going back. And each time, House discovered that the connection hadn't been severed.

"You're my prize, and, what, I'm your punishment?"

This fight was what it was: a rehashing of old, crusty criticisms with a few new themes. In its barest form, it was the same old thing, a decade old, fit to the form of their current lives.

But now they were "involved," to use a term from those trashy teenage dramas House watched, and though they were still the same people, and though things should be the same as ever, this fact could change everything. There was no telling what a fight could do to them.

Knowing all this, House could not resist taking the fight to its ultimate conclusion.

"It _does_ feel that way."


	8. the woman in me shouts out

**This pain in our hearts  
**

House would worry, except that his brain was occupied with what's his name, the Amazing I Can't Remember A Thing Man, and was thus spared the sheer patheticness of agonizing over whether or not Wilson would bounce back from their fight. Picking on Wilson had seemed like a great way to work off his building frustration and to get his mind off his aching leg, but Wilson went and picked back at him. The whole thing had escalated- and Wilson must have been _so_ pleased that they started yelling at each other in public, and, worse, in a place everyone they knew could see- to the point that, at the end of the day, House had gone back home by himself, in a taxi. Though House would have preferred to take the bike in, he had let Wilson drive him in. He hadn't wanted a ride back.

Hours had since passed, and Wilson still hadn't come back home.

House stayed awake as long as he could, to hear the moment the door opened, but he was already exhausted from the insomnia. He'd been running high on the case, with its intricacies and its quirks, and that had kept him going for a while. But he was starting to crash. Sleep finally claimed House as its victim, and he fell asleep on the couch, still waiting. He slept in fits and starts, thinking each sound a sign of Wilson's return, and even as he dreamed he tried to figure out the patient's problem.

** The woman in me shouts out  
**

After running a never-ending series of lab tests, Cameron noticed that the lights were on in Wilson's office. Common sense bid her stay away; this wasn't anything to do with her and Wilson had already gotten angry at her for interfering with his personal life.

But Cameron always did listen to her feelings of pity more than anything else.

She knocked. "Come in," Wilson said.

He was lying on his couch, which was just long enough to fit his entire body's length, if he propped his feet on the armrest. She suspected that the couch's size was not mere coincidence. "Something I can help you with?" he asked, letting the report he was holding drop to his chest.

Cameron tried to remember if there were any knots with the current case that she could ask Wilson about. Somehow she didn't want to ask directly how things were with House; she wanted that little lie, maybe then she could casually slip in—

"It's not a fight, if that's what you're wondering." He laughed a little dryly, and it bothered her to hear him that way. "Not really. Though he might think it is. I'm just looking for a break from the wave of negativity he's been surfing all week. Couldn't take it anymore."

"You're going to spend the night here?" she blurted out before thinking.

"Wouldn't be the first time. We've got a history, this couch and me."

"Oh. Um. If it's a place to crash that you need, I've got a pull-out sofa—"

"Next time I don't want him to ever talk to me, I'll take you up on that offer."

"I wasn't—" she started, with indignation.

"But House wouldn't take it that way."

It made sense. She'd seen how obsessive House could be; it figured that he'd be the jealous type. "If there's anything I can do…"

"Unless you can get him to cool down, no. Thank you, Cameron."

"Okay, um, good night, then."

"Good night."

She closed the door softly behind her, unable to stop a sense of relief that she wasn't in his place.


	9. i’ll throw you to the floor

**I'll throw you to the floor  
**

House didn't seek out Wilson the following day at the hospital, because he'd been pathetic enough the previous night. At least he'd done that in private. No one need ever know. Especially not Wilson.

His thigh was still bothering him, even with the extra Vicodin, and he tried to walk it off. His travels eventually led him to the bathroom, where, through sheer coincidence, he ran into Wilson.

They studied each other carefully, tentatively, warily, two soldiers trying to determine if they were on the same side or not. They looked for tell-tale signs, like more wrinkles than normal about the eyes, a depressed air, and any traces of relief. House noticed that Wilson had changed clothes since yesterday, but he always had been a freak who kept spare outfits about his office. More to the point, Wilson looked like he'd slept just as well as House had.

Their appraisals took less than a second, and Wilson broke the silence that never came to be. "Any news on Elton Denver?"

Instead of answering, House kissed him, without even checking to see who else was about, forgetting that he'd wanted to limit the displays of their affection in public. And as Wilson responded with equal force, as he crushed House against him, arms around his back, House understood that things had, indeed, changed between them, just not in the way that he had imagined. Their platforms weren't drifting apart; they were crashing into one another. They pulled apart, slightly, and stood there hugging, clinging to one another, their heads nestled in each other's throats.

"I love you," House let out, because once you got this far, there was no point in hiding it.

"Thank god," Wilson said, his words somewhat muffled.

House pulled back his head back a bit, enough to look into Wilson's face again. "That's the best you've got?"

"No." Wilson looked straight him in the eye. "Of course I love you. Idiot."

"Of course," House sighed, and buried his face again in the crook of Wilson's neck.


	10. i cannot stop hungering for otherness

**I cannot stop hungering for otherness **

And just like that, the mystery was gone.

With the fight, and its rapid resolution, he learned every last detail about Wilson. If before he had wondered what an argument of such large scale would do to them, he now knew; if anything, it would bring them closer. There was no risk of them separating, and there wasn't anything he didn't know about their relationship.

Routine was one thing; predictability was another. And House could predict _everything_.

When Wilson started to touch House, House could guess what he was planning. "Hand job," he'd say, his eyes flicking to Wilson's mouth with more boredom than arousal, "with me on my back."

Wilson would lie, saying that that wasn't he had intended at all, he wasn't in the mood for that, but it was as if House had read his mind. He couldn't hide it, and Wilson knew that. Yet he still tried to lie, unwilling to throw in the towel, to admit that House knew him that well, or that he was that predictable. He would try to cover up by trying something else, though he knew that House knew what he was thinking.

He did love Wilson. He was also tired of him.

**You're my front-page story  
**

"Lunch?" Wilson asked from the doorway.

House made one full circle in his chair. "Who did I eat lunch with yesterday?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and left.

Cameron, Foreman, and Chase glanced at each other quickly to see if any of them had understood what had just taken place. Cameron in particular looked worried, but she always did want things to be picture-perfect with her hospital family. House decided to clarify the situation.

"Ladies and gentleman, what you have just witnessed was an abridged version of conversation, oh, let's number it three hundred and sixty-three. The full version goes something like this." House held out his two hands, each joining its fingers in two separate groups. He moved the two groups on either hand to simulate a flapping mouth.

"Who did you have lunch with yesterday, Wilson?" He flapped the right hand, speaking in his normal voice.

"Why, you, House," flapped the right hand, accompanied by a squeaky voice.

"And dinner?"

"You!"

"Breakfast today?"

"You again!"

"If I have to watch you chew one more bite, I will be forced to kill you to preserve my mental health."

"'Fuck you!'" concluded the left hand. House looked up from his hands and back at his employees. "Did you get all that, or do you need actual puppets?"


	11. am I encased in this devil’s plan?

**Am I encased in this devil's plan **

"I don't know how you put up with him," Cameron insisted, waving her fork about in the air almost accusatorially. Wilson was learning that as much as people thought her to be always poised, it was a bit of a lie. She had her moments of discomposure.

"Excuse me, isn't this his employee talking, the one that spends all her working hours in the same office? The one that blackmailed him into a date?"

She sniffed and staked several layers of lettuce. "I had my rose-colored glasses on. Once the crush wore off and the awe faded into respect, I realized that he's _insufferable_. I care about him, but I can't stand him. How can you put up with him?"

This was a question Wilson had asked himself before. "It's not so bad when you know the reason behind his, er, crankiness."

"There's a reason?" Cameron leaned over, spoke in hushed tones. "C'mon, tell me."

Wilson didn't answer immediately. He'd learned dramatic delivery from the best: House himself. "It's because that's how he is."

Cameron slumped back into her chair. "That's not a reason, and it doesn't make it better at _all_."

"No, it does. Once you realize that you're with an insufferable jerk, you can move on to the fact that you're with him _because_ he's a jerk. And then how can you complain, when you've got what you wanted?"

There was a pause in the conversation as Cameron thought about this and Wilson ate a few bites of his beef stroganoff or whatever the cafeteria had meant it to be. "I don't know what's worse," she declared, "that you think that way or that you don't mind."

"They call it Stockholm syndrome." The cheer in his voice was only slightly forced.

**Your companion of soul understanding  
**

"Didn't I tell you? I could have sworn that I told you."

Wilson looked exasperated; he looked like that a lot, these days. "I think I'd remember you telling me that you'd upped the Vicodin back to the maximum recommended dose."

"Ohh," House nodded, "that's right."

"What?"

"Well, I did think of telling you, but then I thought of what you'd say, then what I'd say in reply, and… after going through the conversation once, I really didn't feel like repeating it. Certainly you understand."

"No, actually, I don't."

"I knew you wouldn't," House sighed.

"Let me this straight: you're going to take on both sides of our conversations now? Should I let you and your imaginary Wilson be alone? Give you two some privacy?"

"Nah, there's nothing to hide about you from you. Feel free to peep." House winked at Wilson. "Voyeurism doubles the fun."

"Seriously, House! Am I supposed to read your mind?"

"The nagging, the sheer nagging! Do you mind if I continue this with the imaginary Wilson? Easier on the eardrums that way."

"Fine. Do it in your head, if I'm that predictable."

"I will." House leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling for a few moments. "There. This ends up with you storming out of here and a future conversation in which I still make no promises to tell you anything at all."

"You're a pain," Wilson snapped before leaving.

"Told you so," House said to an empty room.


	12. ignoring your conscience

**Ignoring your conscience allows you to justify everything  
**

House didn't know what to do; the pain was only getting worse. The morphine he used to squirrel away was long gone. He'd thrown it out the first week Wilson had moved back in, because had it stayed, sooner or later (and more likely sooner), Wilson would have found it. Between the prospect of definite nagging and the possibility of pain, he preferred the latter. And now he regretted it, because at this rate he'd gnaw his thigh off, if it meant that it would just stop _hurting_.

Additional Vicodin, of course, was proving ineffective. Any sort of whinging at his fellow medical authorities would get him lectures about how it was all psychological, stress-related, and just in his ratty old head. Which, given that it was all _feeling_ downright physical, thank you very much, House was not in the mood to hear their new-age trash.

House went with a tried and true solution: get hurt elsewhere even more.

Though they weren't as active as they had been in the first months of their relationship, Wilson was still conditioned for sex after the jogging, and his brain was as close to getting shut off as it ever got. That was the best time to try it; Wilson was the least likely to notice something off then.

House had been suspecting for a while, from the way Wilson's hands would linger on his ass before straying onto less controversial territory, that Wilson wanted to try out penetration, and that the only thing keeping him from suggesting it was what House had said when they first got together: no anal sex.

One Wednesday morning, when their limbs were entangling themselves in a debauched kind of way, House reached for a bottle he'd placed in a strategically easy-to-get-but-out-of-sight location and then ran it down against Wilson's back. "What's that?" he asked, with equal amounts of curiosity and irritation; he hated being distracted during sex. He took it very seriously, Wilson did.

"An idea," House said innocently, and whipped the bottle to right in front of Wilson's eyes, which kind of glazed over upon realizing what it contained and what that, in turn, implied. Lubrication.

"Are you—I mean, won't it—"

"Just do it," House insisted, and Wilson did, and they did it, and it hurt like a motherfucking _bitch._ It was cold, with the lube, and uncomfortable, like being constipated, except not at all. The angle they picked put pressure on his thigh, which screamed at first, but then was finally, thankfully, silenced by all sorts of new complaints. He started to lose his erection, which was bad, because Wilson was definitely going to notice something was amiss. He tried to get his dick back up by massaging it, all the while distorting his facial features into something that could conceivably be interpreted as pleasure.

Of course, Wilson was too sharp to be fooled. "You're—"

"It's fucking great, don't stop," but it came out more a snarl than a groan, like he had meant it to, and Wilson pulled out, for good. House couldn't tell if he felt better with or without the friction. At least the throbs from his anus, and now again from his thigh, made the fury written all over Wilson's face seem far, far away. House knew that he was in trouble, deep trouble, but he couldn't seem to summon the will to care.

"Thank you very much for including me in your sick, twisted quest for self-torture-"

"Isn't that what sex is about?"

Wilson couldn't even speak, he was so livid.

"See, it's your own fault, you can always say 'no.'" House was used to trying to act normal through the haze of pain and had mastered the art of rambling. No one ever suspected that someone who was talking so much could have something wrong in their head. Everyone, that is, except for those that knew him, which included Wilson, so the non-stop talking was pointless. He couldn't quite stop himself, however. "I know what 'no' means, they taught me during those priceless sexual harassment workshops. I'd have respected your boundaries if you weren't such a horny slut."

"I don't even know why I'm surprised," Wilson said dryly, "since this is your _specialty_. Destroying anything good in your life."

"You didn't think I'd stop just because you got into my pants, did you?"

"How would you feel if I used you to hurt myself?"

"Oh, I'd be so upset that I'd break up with you, definitely." House closed his eyes. "Look, can we do the yelling at me thing later? I'm not in the mood."

"No, we'll jolly well do it now, without the imaginary Wilsons," and House could hear the grimness in Wilson's voice. Well. Perhaps that too would distract him from his thigh. He could use all the distraction available. "You can't stand being happy," Wilson yelled, and while some women could pull off being beautiful in anger, Wilson couldn't. He looked positively hideous. "You don't know how to be. Just as things are starting to go well--"

"Didn't you read the warning label before jumping into bed with me? No, wait, sorry, I forgot—you _wrote_ the warning label."

"You can't stand being happy," Wilson continued, undeterred and determined to unravel this yarn unto its conclusion, "so you're sabotaging this. Us."

"Who needs sabotage?" House shot back. "You're starting to regret this—don't think I can't tell—"

"It doesn't have to be like this," Wilson pleaded, "You could—" he shook his head. "You wouldn't even know how to begin to be happy." He got off the bed, and the sudden movement jarred House's legs and rear, which did not appreciate it. "This is pointless. Stay here and mope, I'm going to work."

"I'm going too." House tried to get up, and regretted it at once. He fell back onto the bed, straight onto his back.

"That's the problem with getting high off pain," Wilson droned, "it fucks up everything else. I'll tell them you're sick. It's just about true."

House hated to ask this, but he had to know. "Will you be coming back home tonight?"

Disbelief was a better look for Wilson, but it didn't make House feel any better. "I wouldn't count on it."


	13. i got my secret weapon

**I got my secret weapon  
**

She unbuttoned her blouse, he his shirt. As she slipped her arms out one sleeve and then the other, Wilson said lightly, "He is going to find out about this, you know."

"Which means you want him to." Cameron neatly folded her blouse and placed it on top of the dresser. Wilson wasn't anywhere near as conscientious; he let his shirt drop to the floor.

"Wouldn't be here otherwise."

She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, her rear end facing Wilson. "Is this to hurt him?"

"Yes. No. But that doesn't matter." Skirt followed blouse, and then she reached behind her back in a movement so oft-repeated that it's thoughtless, automatic. "Let me. I mean, may I?"

Amused, "Go for it."

He unhooked her bra deftly, and with her cooperation he pulled it off, threw it onto the floor with the rest of his discarded and forgotten clothing. He massaged her breasts, feeling their weight, their consistency. "It's been a long time," he sighed.

She sat next to him, and then their noses bumped as they kissed; they apologized simultaneously. Despite the excessive politeness their personalities brought in, Cameron felt comfortable; Wilson had a good touch, sensitive and considerate.

At the same time, it was the most mechanical sex she's ever had.

The next morning greeted them with the insistent beeping of Cameron's cell phone's alarm clock. It took each of them a silent, wary moment to reassess where they were and why they were there with the other. Within a few moments Cameron got up and walked straight into the bathroom. Wilson heard the sound of running water as he lay there in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He expected her to take half an hour, but she was out within a few minutes, rubbing her hair with an extra-white and extra-large towel, with another towel wrapped around her body. "Aren't you going to shower?"

"Not sure. I don't want it to be too obvious, that'd arouse his suspicions. On the other hand, walking in smelling of you and sex would rub it in his face, really drive the point home."

"You've got problems," Cameron concluded.

"I'll shower," he decided. "It'll look like I'm trying to hide what happened."


	14. calling all avenging angels

**Calling all avenging angels  
**

By the time Wilson got to his office, House was there. This, Wilson thought, this is what it takes to get the man who's been avoiding me to willingly place himself in my presence. House was sitting behind the desk, making a tower of all the paper weights in the room, along with other objects like staplers and medical encyclopedia volumes. The tower teetered.

They stared at each other, and Wilson knew that House was reading, like a book, all the pages on his face- his posture, his recycled clothes. Knew that in those few seconds House was drawing the conclusion from all the evidence he had available.

"House," Wilson began.

With a swipe of his hand the tower fell, crashing in a tremendous cacophony. Wilson noted with abstract interest, as though he weren't a part of this, that several items broke; others spilled their contents in all directions. "You'll move out today," House's voice was level. "Get your things out before I go home today."

Wilson nodded.

"Do I know the bitch? The bastard?"

"She's in your office now."

He looked so enraged that, for the first time, Wilson felt pangs of guilt and self-hatred, and wanted nothing more than to apologize and explain himself. But this is not the time for that, nor would it ever be. He made a point of keeping his head raised, and watched as House hobbled to the door.

House turned the doorknob, and after what seemed like a moment's consideration, he looked, with an unwavering gaze, again at Wilson. "I never thought you'd do this to me." Wilson made note of the roughness of House's voice, and its lower tone.

He smiled wryly. "I know."

Once alone, Wilson called the janitor to clean up the broken glass. "Knocked some paper weights off my desk accidentally," he explained and even threw in a weak joke, "Maybe I ought to get a doctor to see how my motor skills are running." But it's a building full of intelligent, educated, and nosy people. By lunch the whole hospital would know what had happened.


	15. the censorship of my skin

**The past is a well-closed book **

She came over, a cardboard box in her arms. From the way she carried it, it seemed to be a light load—lighter, perhaps, than what she'd been carrying under House's supervision.

"So he—"

"He didn't fire me, I quit." She dumped the box onto the floor. "Between sticking around and being tortured every day and leaving, the latter sounded better. It's okay. My fellowship was nearly over anyway. I've got some other possibilities lined up."

Perhaps Wilson should have felt guilty for having used Cameron. He certainly felt as though he should have. But there was no remorse in him when he started to say how sorry he was.

Cameron cut him short. "Yeah, right. And now you'll tell me that if you could do it over again, you would. It's not as if I didn't know what I was getting into."

"You don't even want to know why I asked you to sleep with me?"

"I do," she admitted, "but I don't think you'd tell me."

"Pretty much."

She shrugged. "And I had my own reasons."

"You did?" Wilson asked before he could stop himself.

She picked up the box again. "Now I can't come back, even if I wanted to."

**The censorship of my skin  
**

Wilson expected House to take his vengeance on him, like he had on Stacy. And he did. Just not in the way he expected. There were no open pranks, unveiled insults, nor petty yet infuriating schemes of annoyance.

There was just silence.

They went from being together all the time to not at all, and when they ran into each other in the hospital, which was a daily occurrence, House looked straight through him, as though he weren't there. It was unnerving, to say the least. And Wilson missed him; missed that prickly wall of a boyfriend he used to lean against, missed the sound of him breathing and his commentary which made the world feel like a worse, but at least funnier, place.

Wilson ached to indulge in his usual post-breakup ritual, namely, find someone else to kiss, hug, hold, fuck. A one-night stand, a girlfriend, whatever, as long as he didn't have to be alone. But he didn't allow himself this liberty.


	16. a vision to illuminate your mind

**Author's Notes**: And, at last, here is the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who read this far-- I hope it was worth the ride

**A vision to illuminate your mind  
**

Wilson always knew that however long it took, House would eventually return.

He walked into his office one day to discover House sitting in the chair behind his desk. Seeing him there, memories from the previous times House had sat there rushed through Wilson's mind. His heart contracted with regret and determination.

"You haven't slept with anyone else since," House started without preamble, "Given your dependence on sex, this is nothing short of shocking."

"Is it?"

"You're acting as if you're committed to a monogamous relationship- no sex with your partner and no sex with anyone else. As I'm fairly confident that you've kept to yourself, it seems to me that you're trying to be faithful to me after the fact."

Carefully, as though not to frighten him into running away, Wilson walked towards the desk. "How do you know that I haven't been around?"

House rolled his eyes and, with an arm against the desk for the propulsion, moved the chair side-to-side, side-to-side, on its base. "Please. I don't need to talk to you to know what you're doing. You've had less sex than a Tibetan monk in a desert. And you must know that this wouldn't be enough for me to forgive you, nor are you sensitive enough to remain single this long after a failed relationship."

"Get to your point."

House suddenly stopped his chair-swinging, sitting perfectly still. "I don't have one because I don't _get_ it."

By now Wilson was standing almost directly in front of House. No furniture separated them, just a few feet of space. He decided not to approach him anymore, to keep House from feeling closed in. "The mighty House is stumped? _And_ admits to it?"

"I know why Cameron did it—wanted a pretext to abandon the nest—and I _thought_ you did it because you were so frustrated with me." House raised his eyebrows. "I must have been wrong, since your behavior isn't consistent with that hypothesis. There's only one other explanation I could think, but it makes no sense."

Wilson crossed his arms and leaned against the bookcase behind him, feigning casualness. "And we all know how you feel about sense."

"You want to hear the explanation?" As if to counteract Wilson's faked coolness, House took his cane and thumped it repeatedly against the floor. Thump. Thump. The rhythm didn't match the speed of Wilson's racing heart.

"I think you'll tell me either way," Wilson tried to sound bored, refusing to let on how much on edge he felt. He didn't let himself flinch when House raised his cane and jabbed its tip towards him as if he were about to attack him. The aggression and anger were to be expected.

"You slept with Cameron to keep me invested in you."

So it was out, at last. Wilson's shoulders slumped. "Did it work?"

House lowered his cane and drew back, as if he were shocked in spite of himself. "Who would cheat in order to save his relationship?"

He couldn't help himself; his own anger finally burst out. "And who looks to his boyfriend to feed him his pain addiction? Or only lets himself get closer when he's pushed away?!" He was starting to yell, and though it wasn't his intention to be so confrontational—not now—he didn't think he could stop himself.

House was glaring at him, and Wilson could practically _hear_ his thoughts: don't blame this on me. He could see him starting to move his lips to say this, to rail at him about how Wilson was the one who overstepped the boundaries.

Without warning, Wilson grabbed the chair's armrests, looming over House. "I only gave what you wanted."

"What, an achey-breaky heart? Sorry I forgot to send a thank-you card."

"Unpredictability. Pain."

House was more or less trapped between the chair and Wilson, but that didn't mean that he wasn't doing his best to get out. "Move."

Wilson ignored the demand. "You can complain all you want that I'm boring, that you know everything about me, but you yourself admitted it: you never thought I'd cheat you, much less with Cameron. You don't know me as well as you think you do."

House tried to shove one of Wilson's hands from the armrest. "And the more I learn, the less I want to know. Funny, your charm is inversely proportional to how well someone knows you."

Wilson only hung on more tightly. "Don't think I'm letting you go. You can drive me away all you want, but I'm sticking around."

Abandoning the physical attempts to get out of the chair—perhaps he realized it wouldn't get him anywhere—House leaned back, taking on the air of a man with all the patience in the world. But Wilson could still feel his resentment. "Tell me, if I were to let you stick around, where do you see us in twenty years?"

His hands still on the armrests, Wilson sank onto his knees, and was again reminded of the previous times House had sat in that chair. That first blow-job had been a disaster, but things had worked out. "More angry and bitter than ever. You'll still be an annoying prick who'll attempt to destroy your own, and therefore my, happiness at every turn, and I'll still be finding new abusive ways to keep us together."

"Well, that sure makes me want to jump back into your dirty, scheming, cheating arms."

"It should. You're a pain junkie and you need a reliable source of irritation, anger, and frustration."

This didn't sit well with House either. "You're _nuts_ ."

"I am," Wilson admitted, "but that's hardly the issue. You've always known that I'm nuts—and however much you _do_ know me, you keep forgetting one thing: I know you just as well. And I wouldn't have slept with Cameron if I wasn't convinced it was the one thing that would keep you from getting bored."

His knees were hurting and his arms were starting to ache from being held in the same position, with all their strength, for so long. If he felt like he still needed to corner House he'd have stayed, but he felt safe with getting up. So he rose, and House took advantage of this to stand up as well, the chair rattling back.

They were standing face to face, now.

"You're basically saying that _I'm_ nuts."

"That, everyone knows."

House turned around. "You're an asshole."

"Which is why you like me."

It was House's turn to let his shoulders slump. He didn't reply, and Wilson let him stay as quiet for as long as he needed. Now that he'd let his anger out, he felt calmer, more assured.

At long last House, his hand turning white from how hard he gripped at his cane, asked, "So, what? We start all over again? The next time you think my attention is starting to stray, you saw my left leg off?"

"I'm okay with that."

House whirled around to glare at him again. " _I'm_ not."

"Fine. I'll saw off your arm. Or your ear. What limb are you least attached to?"

House stared at him, then sighed. "We are so screwed."

Tentatively, Wilson reached for him. When House showed no sign of aversion, he picked up his left hand, and squeezed it. House didn't squeeze back, but Wilson wasn't worried; one step at a time. "So we are."

House studied him, his eyes darted back and forth as he studied Wilson's face, and Wilson knew that he was trying to read, to understand, him. "I'm never going to forgive you, you know."

"No," Wilson smiled wanly. "I didn't expect you to."


End file.
